


mess me up so good

by craple



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Exhibitionism, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-29
Updated: 2012-10-29
Packaged: 2017-11-17 07:19:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/549020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/craple/pseuds/craple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Where Gerris is possessive and Quentyn is exhausted - “You’ve ruined me,” he states, flat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	mess me up so good

**Author's Note:**

> post game of thrones, novel-verse, so that's uhh, quentyn around 16? don't think i should tag this as underage, yeah? america has weird system so i reckon this is okay.

The sparring session is more of a war-challenge than a friendly spar between two perfectly capable knights. Quentyn would have felt sorry for Cletus’ awkward rambling about ground rules, deaf in the ears of either knight, if he is not the ultimate prize for the winner in this stupid challenge – of sorts.

Really, it is all Arianne’s fault. He looks behind his shoulder, searching for Arianne’s dark brown eyes, definitely twinkling with mirth by now, finds nothing. Maybe she is too satisfied from breaking out to fits of improper laughter in the court this morning, after Ser Arthur has offered him his help on teaching Quentyn how to sharpen his swords on his own, the corner of his lips tugged in a suggestive manner.

A faraway bell rings, drawing his attention back to present. On the corner of the field, right outside the armoury, Gerris strides back and forth, testing the weight of one wooden sword to another. Bright golden eyes lift to meet his own, and Quentyn inhales sharply then looks away.

Or maybe not, he thinks, frustrated as flashes of memories from this morning – Gerris’ loud snort in the dining table, his too _‘subtle’_ hateful scowl, Ser Arthur’s questioning brow – invades his mind. Arianne had already started laughing when the verbal fight ensued, so Quentyn is not really sure.

“Well then,” Cletus announces on the middle of the field. Ser Arthur marches in first, his flowing golden hair an attractive sight compared to Gerris’ curly sandy blonde ones, sharp-looking wooden sword sliding through his fingers. They glower at one another for a heartbeat, until Cletus leans back on his heels, voice screeching “ _Begin!_ ” before anyone is prepared for what happens next.

Gerris charges forward, hard and sudden, graceful and calculated like the royal arrogant sod he is. He thrusts his sword without hesitation, blocks each attack with elegance most knights are lacking these days, spins around in circle after each merciless attack.

Ser Arthur is obviously exhausted, incapable of handling Gerris on his own. Something like pride swells deep inside his chest, warm and hyperactive under his skin. Quentyn ignores the whispers of _‘mine’_ inside his head as he watches, a small smile lilting his face.

But then the worst happens. It _has_ to happen due to Gerris being the arrogant smug bastard he is, _has_ to look at Quentyn on the corner of his eyes then gives him an arrogant charming smirk and the opening Ser Arthur needs to throw him on his back.

The sword hangs low above Gerris’ left hip before it hits him hard, sending him tumbling back across the field. He tries to counter the sword, block the attack like it was before, only to have the sword thrown a few miles away from his hand. Ser Arthur’s foot is on his chest then, the tip of the sword touching the nape of Gerris’ neck. Quentyn’s stomach lurches in disgust at the smile on Ser Arthur’s face.

-x-x-x-

“Ger, I know you’re here, so you’d better come out _now_.”

No reply but the rustling of wind outside the armoury. A twig creaks, not underneath the soles of Quentyn’s boots. Sliding of fabric down bare damp skin, the sound loud in the quiet of the room, signs Gerris’ presence in the room without having to see a glimpse of him. Quentyn purses his lips.

Unimpressed by Gerris’ child-like stubbornness, he calls out, “If you’re not coming out then I’m taking Ser Arthur’s offer – “

A snarl cuts him off, followed by rough possessive hands skimming his ribs. Behind him Gerris stands still like a statue, his body a furnace of heat seeping down beneath Quentyn’s tunic, greedy hands moving everywhere.

Fond as he is at the display of affection, Quentyn stops him when Gerris’ hot calloused fingers are trailing small circles down the inside of Quentyn’s thigh, nails biting into the material of his breeches, rough and slow.

“Gerris, not here, not now, Ser Arthur is – “

“Fuck him, fuck them all,” Gerris snaps, and curls his fingers tightly around Quentyn’s shaft. Quentyn’s breath hitches sharply in his throat.

He leans forward, hips jerking against the tight fist, while he tries to form a proper response to the furious man behind him that involves not fucking him dry in the armoury, because as tempting as it sounds, his arse is still sore from last night. He’d be limping his way back to the main hall if Gerris does.

“Listen to me,” Quentyn shoots back, moaning quietly. “You don’t have – there’s no oil around here, and Cletus says Ser Arthur is out there – _aah_!” he mewls, an embarrassing sound that echoes loudly all around, he’s sure his father hears them both when Gerris practically rips his breeches open.

Gerris, the arrogant sod, has the audacity to laugh so openly, raw and broken into his ear. Quentyn’s body shakes with the trembling laughter in Gerris’ chest, feels the hard line of Gerris’ cock rubbing insistently into the cleft of his bare arse.

The hand around his cock is still there, too dry and too rough, the stimulation more painful than pleasure he can’t stop the choked sob from escaping his lips. His traitorous hips shift all the same, subtle as they are.

“Third time now, Quent,” rasps Gerris, hot and low, chapped lips moving over the sensitive skin of his throat. “You mention his name again one last time.” It doesn’t sound threatening like it should. But the head of his cock slips into the tight muscles of his ring, thumb pressing harder against the leaking slit of his cock, and Quentyn lets out a pitiful whimper. It’s warning enough.

Without wasting another second, Gerris ushers Quentyn behind one of the armour stalls. He drags his fingers up and down the exposed sides, feeling the bunch of muscles work underneath, heading south to feel the erratic beating of Quentyn’s heart.

His teeth sink into the already-abused flesh on the crook of Quentyn’s neck and he laps at the dark purple bruise delightfully, thoroughly until the raven haired prince is trembling, oh so quiet, rutting back against his cock greedily.

 Gerris chuckles contently into the coal black hair at the response. It smells of sweat without the usual extra fragrance of lavender underneath. That means Quentyn hasn’t been preparing himself to greet this Ser Arthur.

That thought alone leaves him purring and rutting against the prince’s trembling body, his skin a lovely shade of red Gerris can’t help but kiss. “Least now I know you’re not as eager as your sister was,” he murmurs, dips his fingers into the small phial of oil he _‘borrowed’_ from Ser Arthur’s pocket this morning.

Quentyn makes a deep grunting voice that speaks more volume than words: he doesn’t care. He reaches back to grip the base of Gerris’ cock, face passive as he looks over his shoulder at him but for the fire in his eyes. Smouldering, demanding. Gerris’ cock twitches in his grip.

He huffs, “Very eloquent my prince.” Quentyn’s stare only intensifies at that, but he freezes then groans as Gerris shoves two fingers deep inside him all at once, searching.

The fabric of Quentyn’s tunic catches at the button of Gerris’ shirt, stuck. Gerris shrugs the clothes off in frustration before pushing the velvet-smooth tunic down the prince’s forearms, when his brain comes up with something wonderful.

Smirking, Gerris wraps the messed-up tunic around Quentyn’s slender wrists and ties them together. Quentyn makes a full-body shiver, small threatening growls spilling from his pale chapped lips.

“Gerris.” The knight watches in fascination as Quentyn tugs at the clothing, nails scratching the light green surface, testing the strength just like the way he tests his swords before battles. Gerris pushes his tied wrists up so they rest above his tailbone then slides his fingers delicately along the cleft of Quentyn’s arse, spreading the cheeks open.

“ _Gerris_ ,” Quentyn says again, a warning, but it’s breathy and broken and too quiet, as it always does when he’s impatient.

Gerris sighs like it’s a hassle, when really it’s not, before pushing his fingers deep and slow, watches the slacking of Quentyn’s jaw and how he flushes, staining his skin with pink blotches.

Usually it takes three fingers to get him ready – and Gerris loves that, he really does; how Quentyn is so tight every single time, no matter how long they’ve been doing this, how he is very responsive yet also trying hard to be very quiet because it’s a challenge – but Gerris is pissed.

On a good day he takes his time slow and torturous, which is many.

His day is not so good anymore now, apparently, after his defeat against Ser fucking bloody Arthur. He snatches his fingers away with a snarl, causing a low whimper tearing itself out of Quentyn’s throat. Coating his shaft with what remains in the phial, Gerris settles – then pushes. Hard.

It’s not gentle, nor is it quick. Gerris is rough and slow, making sure each of his thrust is shallow and calculated, then as deep as he possibly could, changing the angle once in a while to see which gets Quentyn whispering his name loudest. The hitching of Quentyn’s breath as Gerris’ cock hits the sweet spot inside him over and over again makes Gerris tempted to take a hold of his throat and watch the way his eyes roll, but he’d save it for later.

Now all he wants is to fuck him, claim him, and make sure that Quentyn knows it’s him who’s causing all the sounds he’s making, all the physical response.

Not changing his pace, Gerris pistons his hips then charges harder, deeper than before. Quentyn actually chokes, like he can taste Gerris’ cock up his throat, can taste him on the tip of his tongue, so Gerris offers his hand to Quentyn’s lips. He sucks each finger greedily, reminding Gerris of a starving man, and he knows that Quentyn is close, so close.

Gerris nuzzles the skin below his lobe, which he later sucks and nibbles on until the prince’s hips stutter. Gerris laughs loud and throaty, grips Quentyn by the waist and changes the angle until he’s shoving Quentyn’s face on the table. He ignores the neglected cock hanging heavy between Quentyn’s legs as he puts one of Quentyn’s knees on the table.

“You need to come for me Quent, without me touching your cock. I know you can do it – you always can when I’m being rough with you like this. Maybe you’d top tonight if you can, so,” he pauses, hips jerking when the tight hot walls around his cock clench almost painfully, Quentyn’s strangled moan barely-audible to his ears.

“Would you please come for me now, Your Majesty?”

And just like that, Quentyn comes; long and intense, his body trembling under the force with Gerris keeps fucking him through it. It doesn’t take long for Gerris too, eight strokes ahead and he’s coming inside him, wrecked and tired, but better than he’s ever been since the arrival of Ser Arthur, which isn’t very long.

Outside, by the door, he sees Cletus coming in, calling for Quentyn to hurry the fuck up. Then he sees them lying across the table, their position telling him exactly what he doesn’t want to know. He’s scrambling out and away from the armoury, cheeks flushing, and tells Will to don’t bother, Quentyn’s okay, and yes, he needs a time to rearrange himself.

Gerris turns Quentyn around, kissing him gently then looks at him straight in the eye. The flush on Quentyn’s body hasn’t disappeared yet – he’d be sad to see them go – but he looks as sober as one can be after a spectacular sex. The corner of his lips curls slightly, not amused.

“You’ve ruined me,” he states, flat.

Gerris grins playfully, tugging at the clothes tied around Quentyn’s wrists. “I’ve ruined your clothes, yes, but I haven’t ruined you,” the subsiding pool of heat is back on the pit of his stomach. His eyes darken, and Gerris really wants to get back in the palace now, so much. “Not yet, at least.”

Quentyn has the grace to scoff, face set.

“Well come on then,” he deadpans, wrapping Gerris’ cloak around him, stepping over the ruined breeches without caring. “We have plenty of time to ruin me before father notices we’re gone.”

“Plenty of time to convince me that I’m the only man you’ll ever be with?” asks Gerris, trying for casual and failing. Quentyn only raises his brow, unimpressed. Gerris chuckles in delight.

It’s answer enough.

**Author's Note:**

> written due to the sad lack of gerris/quentyn out there - their perfect dynamic in the novel aside. can't believe no one even made an attempt on writing one. i feel really sad now.


End file.
